


Extrait de Parfum de Villanelle

by Hors_Doeuvres



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Lesbian Sex, Perfumes all around.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:21:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21876550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hors_Doeuvres/pseuds/Hors_Doeuvres
Summary: Extrait de Parfum— the extract of perfume—  is the purest and truest visions of a fragrance created… It is luxurious, long-lasting, raw, and intimate. It is the true essence of a perfume, and it is in exploring its essence that one comes to a genuine appreciation of its creation…Extrait de Parfum de Villanelle: a fragrance explored.AU. VillanEve is end game. Slow, slow burn. Lots of delving (or attempts of delving) into Villanelle's psyche.Disclaimer:  I am definitely not a licensed psychiatrist and only make inferences based on research conducted to help with the writing of this fanfic.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 15
Kudos: 40





	1. Roses de Sucre et Mangue

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Killing Eve fanfic, and my first fanfic in a while. It will have multiple chapters and will have some dark themes, so please mind the tags as the story progresses. 
> 
> I hope you will enjoy it— thank you.

_ Chapter 1: Roses de Sucre et Mangue _

* * *

  


It didn’t take long for her eyes to adjust to the dim light and shadows, so well that sometimes she imagined herself to actually be able to see in the dark. Maybe it was a condition. Maybe it was a blessing. Regardless, she felt it natural for her to have such a skill. Especially with the type of activities she doggedly pursued. The type of activities that were also much easier to accomplish with her incredibly potent sense of smell. 

  


_ A whiff.  _ Roses. Bloomed. Freshly picked. She could almost imagine the delicate feel of their petals against her cheek. Could almost taste the drops of dew on her tongue.  _ Another whiff--  _ a gentler mix of scents: magnolia flower, lily, pink peony, and freesia. Chloé, Eau de Parfum. A vibrant fragrance , as advertised, intimate and sensual. Admirable taste. Expensive taste. She took in a deeper breath and effortlessly loped into the bedroom, sliding past the half-open door with no difficulty at all, and finally laid her gaze on the beautiful woman lying quietly--  _ helplessly--  _ peacefully--  _ vulnerably--  _ on the luxurious king-sized bed. 

  


She tilted her head to the side, her own petals of excitement budding in her chest. She tells herself to keep her breathing even, regular, she would soon be rewarded— after all, there was nothing she enjoyed more than being  _ very, very good  _ at her job. 

  


A smile played on her lips, cold, calculating. She had to make her move and not waste any more time. So, carefully, she took her phone out of her pocket. She had already done a good bit of the work prior to this night, but she needed closer proximity at the actual moment of the overdose.  _ Why?  _ For insurance, of course. 

  


The woman was a diabetic. Type 1. And she had just started using the newly-released to the market  _ OG (On-The-Go)  _ insulin pump that was created, patented, and trademarked by IMedtek. It was an ingenious creation but also one that had multiple security failings. It didn’t take long for her,  _ yes her,  _ to figure out that she could remotely control these pumps. 

  


After all, once she saw the Target, Lena Van Newton, use her own mini-remote to set her insulin dose after checking her blood sugar level, she knew that it wouldn’t take long for her to determine the radio frequencies that the remote and pump used to communicate to each other. Wouldn’t take long to, satisfactorily, figure out that the lines weren’t even encrypted. Wouldn’t be hard at all to reverse engineer the simple encoding and checks involved in protecting the signal, giving her access to the commands that the  _ OG  _ pump will trust and promptly execute. 

  


No. It didn’t take long at all. So now, she opens the new phone app she had developed and carefully looks at the screen. The pump had just been re-filled by her Target prior to sleeping, so she had more than enough to play with. Her phone showed that it was  _ 1:20 am. _ Just in time and just enough time. 

  


A bolus. A big dose would do well, to flood her body with insulin and and crash her sugar. Hypoglycemia. Dangerous for a diabetic. Shaking, sweating, headache; symptoms that are noticeable and can be stopped if the patient were awake, would not bother her sleep too much. Her sugar would sink too quickly to dangerously low levels. Coma or death would be the skipped-to next step. 

  


She started to manipulate the settings on her screen, a few quick taps and presses here and there, sending all of the commands to the woman currently still sleeping soundly on her bed. She must have been tired. And well, the dose of liquid Diphenhydramine in her food most likely helped some as well. The kitchen staff was grossly daft— even if they did make a delicious butternut squash and white cheddar soup. 

  


A few more seconds, and the commands were all sent. She closed her phone’s screen and slid it back into her pocket. Then, she took a few steps back. Careful. Watching. Listening.  _ Smelling.  _ Enough time had passed, and the guards would be coming back soon— but all they would see would be a beautiful woman, deep in slumber. 

  


She took in another deep breath and turned around. She was done here. Cautiously yet confidently, she made her way back to the bathroom, one of the few places with no security cameras on the property. The closed window was easily opened, and she slid her slim body out with no difficulties. Hands firm on the sill, she reached up and closed the window tightly. 

  


A breath. The air was crisp. What a beautiful night to be creeping around in the dark. 

  


She skillfully made her way to the exposed drain and started making her way down. Down. Down. Down. Then, she made her way horizontally, holding tightly onto the lower level window sills, thankful for the intricate architectural designs that the Bourgeoisie were so fond of. 

  


Finally, she reached paved ground, and she smiled— after all, she was not planning on leaving any traceable footprints on the malleable grass. She quietly placed her feet on the walkway and shook her hands, letting the blood flow, reminding her of one of her favorite activities: bouldering. But now was not the time for reminiscing, so, she quickly and stealthily began to make her way out of the grounds. 

  


The rest was easy. Dodge a couple of guards here and there, stay low to avoid detection, slide her body through a cavity that she had painstakingly chiseled out of the wall surrounding the property (which sounds harder than it was. Honestly, she just chipped away at old mortar and had gotten three large rectangular blocks free. Just enough space for her to squeeze through). 

  


Once she was out, she started to walk towards the direction she had come, making her way to the motorcycle she had used as transport. It was a brisk walk, not a run but not a leisurely pace either. Two minutes into the walk, she had pulled her black mask off, revealing more than just her cat-like eyes. Her honey blonde hair was in a tight braid that wove its way to the back of her neck, and her lips were full and curled into a satisfied smirk. 

  


She put her mask into the small bag she was carrying and took out another phone. From memory, she dialed a number. A ring and it was answered quickly by a deep, rough voice, “Luigi’s Pizza place. You can order by the pan or the slice. What can I do for you?” 

  


“Do you have salads? I’m really watching my diet,” she responded, cheekily, her voice clear and distinctively Russian in accent. 

  


A heavy sigh. “We had a meeting. We had a powerpoint. The codes, Villanelle. The  _ codes are to be used _ .” 

  


She uttered a fake gasp. “Well now there’s no use since you used my name,” she tsked. “And what accent was that supposed to be? Italian? That sounded decidedly Arab. Shall I order pita instead?” 

  


“Is it done?” The deep voice directed, ignoring her words. She rolled her eyes slightly.

  


“Yes.”

  


“Good. Give me the full report when you are back in HQ. And oh,” a pause, “pick up your little sister on the way.”

  


She raised a perfectly shaped brow. “Which one?” And then, curiosity getting the best of her (as it always did). “And why?”

  


“Sonnet.”

  


Ah. Her lips quickly curled into a wide smile, mischievous. “Why?” She pressed again. 

  


“... she is detained currently by Italian security for attempting to board a flight with a knife in her bag. One she has never had before. And a note in her pocket. The mark had flipped the situation on her.” 

  


Villanelle laughed. She was high on a successful kill. High on not being caught. And this—  _ this was fucking hilarious.  _

  


“Sonnet got  _ duped _ ?” She emphasized, another laugh. A sigh from the other line. 

  


“Pick up your little sister and come home. Goodbye.” And the call was ended. 

  


Villanelle shook her head and put her phone back in her bag. She had finally reached her motorcycle: a 2018 Ducati Monster 821. Sleek and stylish, but also quite effective. 

  


She turned around and took one more look at the general direction of her Target’s estate and smiled. 

  


_ Sonnet must be so pissed off. _

_  
_

* * *

  
  


“Why. In. All. Fresh. Hells—  _ did they send you _ ?” Sonnet hissed under her breath when she and Villanelle were finally in the privacy of a large, black SUV. Villanelle took in a deep breath—  _ mango and citrus, unchanged—  _ and evenly replied, “I was closest. I just  _ accomplished  _ a job in Vienna.”

  


Sonnet’s face scrunched up at her choice of words.  _ Accomplished.  _ She made sure to sit as far away from her as possible and clicked her tongue. “I could have gotten out of there by myself.” 

  


Villanelle tried very hard not to—  _ who was she kidding?—  _ she rolled her eyes hard and said, “I am sure. But father wants us back ASAP. And it would have taken you longer without any help.”

  


Sonnet remained silent, but her jaw was tight and her arms were firmly crossed over her chest. 

  


Villanelle almost wanted to point out this childish behavior. A fit, a temper tantrum, then quiet time. And  _ they  _ said she was immature.  _ Bleh. _

  


Taking off her sunglasses, she lazily leaned back and gave the driver a quick ‘go ahead’ signal. He nodded curtly and the SUV immediately started moving. She nodded in satisfaction. He was the best driver that had been assigned to her so far. 

  


What was his name?  _ Aaron.  _ He was tall and slim with a serious and no-nonsense attitude. Which made it all the more fun to try to fluster him with whatever came to her mind. She remembers the time she had hired three strippers to do a private show for her in a luxurious white limo in Berlin. One of them she had made sure to be stripping in the front passenger seat. Aaron had blinked non-stop throughout the whole ordeal.

  


His round glasses had even fogged up. Villanelle had kindly suggested to him to buy anti-fogging glasses, making him look at her with a  _ ‘what the fuck?’  _ expression on his face.

  


She chuckled at the memory. Ah,  _ good times, good times.  _

  


And besides, he  _ was  _ unquestionably competent. Prompt. Did not try to talk unless talked to. Quick to follow commands. And— every once in a while, he would cast out a dry zinger, making her laugh. Like when the strippers were dropped off and he had, quite evenly, stated, “well, I don’t suppose she’d be offended that I didn’t give her a tip?” 

  


She laughed loudly at that, taking it as a joke, though sometimes… she did wonder if he really thought strippers were to be tipped. And now that she was thinking about it again, she wondered then too if she really should have given them a tip—

  


“Where are we going?” Sonnet suddenly asked, derailing her train of thought. 

  


“To the private airport. Don’t worry, you know they won’t frisk you there.”

  


Sonnet glared at her. “Laugh all you want. She got Prose too,” she bit out. 

  


Villanelle turned to her and raised a brow. Sonnet’s long dark hair, that was usually pulled up into a tight ponytail, was framing her angled jaw and smooth cheekbones. Her sharp blue eyes were directed at her challengingly, and her left brow was twitching slightly— a tell that she was very, very angry. 

  


Villanelle took this all in and, once again, laughed. Heartily. “Prose?” She asked, snickering like a child. “You  _ and  _ Prose?” She added, more than just amused. 

  


“Is it so surprising that  _ she  _ got caught?” Sonnet asked, the emphasis on ‘what’s so special about her when I got caught too?’

  


Villanelle let out a long breath and said, “no, but it is surprising that the mark has  _ duped  _ two— not one— but  _ twwwwooo  _ Poets.” She shook her head and allowed a small grimace to twist her full lips. “Kind of embarrassing, isn’t it?”

  


‘I should  _ spit  _ at you,  _ Oksana _ .” Gone was the English, the practiced Italian accent— in its place was smooth, fluent Russian. 

  


A sliver of silence. Then a warning, “ _ Nadia _ .” A sharp flash of the eyes. Foreboding. Villanelle’s hands were suddenly too near her, the blonde having slid her body smoothly across the leather covered seats before placing one hand behind the other woman’s neck and one on top of her crossed arms. 

  


Her expression was hard, stony. Her eyes were piercing, stabbing at her with a scrutinizing gaze, as if to say, ‘ _ who the fuck do you think you are talking to? _ ’ And her hands— they were firm, warm, a sharp contrast to the icy expression on her face. 

  


“You must be so tired,” Villanelle sharply said in English, tone low and measured. Nadia, as she was called, flinched at the words, and immediately looked away, unable to hold her gaze.

  


Villanelle ignored this reaction and continued: “To say such things— to call me by that name. When you know better. Much better.” She placed her long fingers on the nape of the the now cowed woman’s neck and very deliberately began to knead the tense muscles that only tensed more under her touch. 

  


She took in a deep breath—  _ sweat and that familiar scent: acrid, bitter, almost metallic.  _ It was a smell she associated with fear. It was a smell that she knew most could not detect. But she could. She could detect it, and so easily too. 

  


She took in another deep breath and got a stronger whiff of that scent, noting that it was becoming stronger. More bitter. More acrid. And under that layer, another scent. One more shy. More demure… 

  


More…  _ sensual. _

  


Savoring the scent, she slowly released the other woman’s neck and, with great determination, contained herself. Her desire for more of that scent. Her desire to exert more control. Her desire to dig her hands into Nadia’s soft hair, pull it back, expose her long neck, and suck on that pulse point on her neck where she was sure her hot blood was rapidly rushing through—

  


_ Fear _ was such an arousing thing, and she loathed having to waste it.

  


But Father wouldn’t like her intimidating and then fucking Sonnet. He had already told her that she wasn’t to cast fellow Poets as her lovers or her devices of pleasure. Even those— she had already more than just had a taste of. And she liked her job too much to push  **too** strongly against the professional boundaries he had set for her, especially with those in the same department as her.

  


They were too useful as assets, and quantity was as valued as quality: a fact that was drilled into her because  _ yesss _ , she is the best one, but there are far too many contracts to uphold to have just one Poet. 

  


_ “So please, keep your hands in your pockets and your tongue in your mouth. Preferably, also keeping that tightly shut since you usually can’t control your own words, _ ” as Father had told her. So, with a great measure of self-control, she pulled her hand back from the back of Sonnet’s neck and placed it on her own lap while one hand remained on the other woman’s still tightly crossed arms. 

  


_ “Nadia _ ,” she said, tone now softer, reassuring. “You have always performed well, even from the very beginning, which is why I scouted you and recruited you myself; do not let this minor setback make you lose your cool.” 

  


She gently stroked the soft skin of her forearm, remembering the earlier days of Sonnet’s training. Late nights, early mornings. Travelling to exotic places. Staying at grand hotels and then dingy tents. The cold darkness, the gradually shared warmth. Unexpected companionship. The pleasure she had found in the older yet more inexperienced woman’s body, and still, the lack of any other emotions. 

  


Sonnet had been frustrated with her. With her lack of empathy. Lack of reciprocity. She had not developed the same emotions that Sonnet had. That Sonnet had nurtured, hoping, and unknowing— Villanelle was not one to fall in love. Not the type— and not the type of person to fall in love with as well.

  


Sonnet was quickly heartbroken and Villanelle, after days, weeks, months of conversations with Father and with the retained therapist/psychiatrist, had sincerely (pretentiously) apologized and had handed her training off to another Poet instead. 

  


Ever since then, they rarely crossed paths, usually only during department wide meetings or during continued education. And when their paths did cross, Sonnet was always inflexibly unforgiving. Heated. Indignant. With sharp words and barely concealed glares— and sometimes. 

  


Sometimes… 

  


Villanelle shook her head and stopped her own current train of thought. There was no need to indulge in such wondering or any more of this contact. So, she carefully pulled back her hand, making sure not to clench it into a tight fist, and placed that on her lap as well. 

  


She could be cordial. She could be civil. She could play the role of the supportive, encouraging, and more experienced mentor that Father wanted her to be. After all, it was only acting, and she has always been so good at that. 

  


“Some marks can be very difficult,” she started, “some may need a different style of Poet. We have had to change strategies before— as humans can be quite… evolutionary? Progressive. Always changing. And we have to do the same as well. Do not torture yourself. It is a lesson to be learned, as I have said, targets have eluded us for an admirable time before.”

  


“Never you,” Sonnet suddenly posed. “You have never lost a target before.” And her tone was not as harsh as it usually was. Matter of fact, it was soft, almost complimentary. Maybe even a bit— Villanelle traced the other woman’s beautiful face (yes, she was beautiful) with a calculating gaze and inhaled, slowly. 

  


Mango and citrus. And sweat. And a softer scent hiding under that bitter aftertaste of fear.

  


Villanelle slowly slid back to the opposite end of the SUV. She knew that scent. Deep into those longs nights. Seeping into the air in those early mornings. Over coffee. Over pancakes. Over the remnants of a bonfire extinguished by unexpected rain. 

  


“No,” she finally said, looking away. Looking out. Untouched. Unaffected. But aware. Too aware. Trapped in this little bubble with one of the three people who had sincerely confessed to having fallen in love with her… 

  


“I don’t suppose I have.”


	2. Café, Eau de Javel, et Grenade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is Chapter 2: more interactions, more Poets, and more Villanelle. Enjoy!

_Chapter 2: Café, Eau de Javel, et Grenade_

_Amsterdam._

There were a number of places that possessed a distinct smell to Villanelle and this city was one of them. The moment she stepped out of the plane, she could easily detect the wafting tendrils of that scent— _Amsterdam—_ the inviting sweetness of stroopwafels and coffee, the noxious fumes of bleach and not-wet but not really dry spray paint, and the powdered fragments of construction (asphalt and sawdust).

It was so familiar and perhaps, for the hundredth time, she wondered if maybe the scents of cities were just memories; as Russia reeked strongly of fresh, wet mud mixed with melted snow, slices of tangerines, dry shampoo—

_“Villanelle!”_

She was snapped out of her thoughts (thankfully), and she instinctively couldn’t help but grin widely when she saw who had called her. That long, platinum blonde— almost _silvery—_ hair, those glacial blue eyes, and that deep dimple on her left cheek.

_“Prose!”_ Villanelle called back just as eagerly as she pretty much ran towards the other girl. Equally as gleeful, the platinum blonde started running to her as well, her black Grenson Nanette boots slapping loudly on the concrete floor.

The moment they collided, Prose jumped into Villanelle’s arms and playfully giggled as the taller blonde swung her around, lifting her completely off the ground like a little child. And she was little, compared to Villanelle at least. She was only 5 feet and 2 inches tall, and her build was slender and light.

She was already 22 years old, but she had a young face and could easily pull off an age range from 12 to 18. Especially when she softened her gaze and let her lower lip tremble in helplessness, her trademark role in getting her marks. One that apparently did not work on the elusive mark that Sonnet had lost as well.

With this in mind, Villanelle couldn’t help but smirk _just a little bit_ as she finally put the younger woman down.

“How is my little snowflake?” Villanelle asked, patting the shorter blonde’s head, making her roll her eyes in a petulant manner. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I have been busy,” Prose hedged, nose crinkling and words lace with a light Scottish accent. “A tough job in Phoenix, Arizona.” Her curious glance flickered towards Sonnet who was making her own way out of the plane, pointedly ignoring the two blondes.

“And you work with partners now?” She posed. “I cannae believe you haven’t told me. We would have made a _smashing_ team.”

Villanelle shook her head and, with an amused smirk playing on the corner of her lips, said, “I had to pick her up from having been detained by Italian authorities. The mark had turned the tables on her. Sounds familiar?”

Prose’s nostrils flared slightly. “That cunt.”

Well, that was succinct.

“She’s tae smart for her own damn good,” Prose firmly stated. “Though I cannae help but give her kudos for her tricks.” She paused, eyeing Sonnet who had come closer to listen in on the story.

She seemed to have a quick internal debate to see if she wanted to expose herself like this, and finally continued: “I tried to trail her in a couple of stores in Los Angeles and New York and somehow, _in both cities,_ she managed to slip merchandise in my shopping bag, causing the security to stop me.”

Villanelle’s amused smirk only grew wider. _An interesting Target indeed._ “She slipped items into your bag without you knowing?” she asked, as if to confirm.

“Yes,” Prose answered with a defeated sigh, “she left me a note as well. One that actually made me laugh. The damn cunt.”

The sharp curse word contrasted greatly with her delicate features and lithe body. It was almost comical to Villanelle.

“A note?” Sonnet suddenly asked as she reached into her pocket and pulled out a piece of paper and held it out to Prose. “Was it like this?”

Reaching out, Prose carefully took the piece of paper in her hands and opened it. Suddenly, a peal of laughter. Prose was laughing.

She nodded her head and handed the note to Villanelle, “exactly like that. Same words and all. That clever cunt.”

Villanelle took the note and smoothed out the paper before reading the two words lazily scrawled onto it.

She then looked at the paper again, blinked twice, confirmed with herself that she was reading the words correctly — that she wasn’t having an actual _stroke—_ and, unable to stop herself, laughed again. What a clever cunt indeed, she told herself as she read the words one more time:

_Sorry baby x._

It took a minute or so for Villanelle and Prose to quiet down their laughter while Sonnet, who remained unamused, just swept her gaze around her— while avoiding one obvious form.

Another minute passed, and Villanelle finally spoke. “Well,” she said after casually— _for no reason at all—_ placing the note in her pocket. “I am sure you have other reasons for welcoming us home other than just reminiscing about failed marks. So, tell me, what does Father want?”

Prose raised a hand to her mouth, which was now opened in feigned surprise, and said, “really? I can’t be here just to see my beloved big _sisters_?” Her voice was measured, almost cracking with emotion at the last word. She blinked, her eyes softening into a reproachful look. Villanelle and Sonnet were unimpressed, both sporting stoic expressions, with the dark-haired woman even making a ‘go on’ motion with her hand. As if to say, ‘I don’t have all day, carry on with it.’

Annoyed by the lack of a reaction, Prose jutted out her lower lip and sighed. “Fine,” she said. “I’m here to let you both know that we are to take Sonnet back tae headquarters ASAP. And that Father wants V tae meet him for the post-mission briefing at _The Hole._ ”

“Do you mean together?” Sonnet cut in, tone antsy, as if she were already to her limit with being in close proximity with a certain honey blonde beauty— who cast a conspiratorial wink at the younger blonde at those words.

“No,” Prose answered, an amused smirk curling her lips. “Raymond and I will be taking you tae HQ. While V… does her own thing, I guess.”

“He sent you to chaperone me?” Sonnet asked, tone sharp and challenging.

Prose shook her head. “No. Matter-of-fact, he wanted tae send just Raymond to pick you up. But I insisted since I wanted tae ask Villanelle a few questions, face-to-face.”

“Oh?” The aforementioned woman asked, curious. “And what would that be?”

“Any plans tonight?” Prose asked, making Villanelle raise a perfectly shaped brow. A second passed, two, three: “no.”

“I did well in my mission in Arizona. Can we celebrate tonight at the _Moon Garden_?” the tone was even with a hint of hopeful. Villanelle looked at the younger blonde and nodded her head with no hesitation.

She hadn’t been to _Moon Garden_ in a while, and she always had fun whenever it was her and Prose there. Eating. Drinking. Shooting the breeze and eyeing beautiful women. That would be a good way to celebrate her own success too— a thought that made her think that _maybe_ her therapist was right in inferring that she might be slightly, microscopically, just the tiniiiiest bit vain.

“8 pm should be good,” Villanelle said. “Ample time for me to give report to Father and to get a bit of rest.” It was 2 pm already. She had slept after finishing her mission last night, but she was never one to turn down a short little nap. Especially in between missions, when she didn’t feel like she was wasting _too much_ time.

“Awesome,” Prose grinned, flashing perfectly shaped, perfectly white teeth, as she moved forward to hug Villanelle again who, almost affectionately, tousled her soft hair. She had always had a bit of a soft spot for the younger woman, having trained and gotten to know her for a year.

At first, she didn’t even _particularly_ like the sixteen year old little shitbag. She was rude. Entitled. Vain. With superficial charm and a brain that was quick enough at learning accents and creating on-the-spot personas to prevent her from struggling under Villanelle’s critical watch. It was, in a word, _annoying_.

And it was especially annoying when the little blonde would go around telling people how their training went. What she had learned. How Villanelle had taught her this, this, and that— a breach of privacy in her opinion— annoying her enough that she actually went to Father about it (since he would not have approved of him exacting her own brand of discipline: tight scarves, bound hands, a few snaps of a riding crop; a lot of props in the disguise department. And she did look ravishing in an Equestrian outfit).

“What?” Father had said, his face scrunched up in what looked like disbelief. “You don’t like her because she’s… vain, rude, and entitled?” His tone was condescending, as if he was trying to make a point.

“She asks a lot of questions and tells everyone what we do during training,” Villanelle explained, slowly, as if speaking to a toddler.

Father had raised both eyebrows at that and chuckled softly. “Villanelle.” He said, leveling a paternal gaze at her. “She asks all these questions because she very, very much wants to learn from you. She talks about your training like she’s boasting of you. How _amazing_ you are, as she has told me. She’s not trying to clash with you. She admires you. Your talents. Your gifts. She’s even talked to me about her worries of disappointing you.”

He paused, a fond twinkle in his dark gray eyes as he smiled at her. “She _admires_ you. Wants to be just like you. Hell, she’s even started dressing like you. With those expensive clothes you love so much.”

“I thought she was mocking me,” Villanelle pouted, her nose crinkling in distaste.

“Imitation is the highest form of flattery,” Father asserted. “You are her role-model. So maybe you should give her a chance, yes? Though I don’t know whether the world will survive having two Villanelles walking around.” An exaggerated look of concern lined his face, prompting Villanelle to lob a couch pillow at him.

He laughed. Boomingly. “Give the girl a chance,” he then said. “She might surprise you.”

And Villanelle, grudgingly, tried to follow his advice.

It was hard. The little shitbag had finally stopped telling people about their training sessions (as Father had talked to her about this, wouldn’t want trade secrets to be exposed to the whole world), but now, she was asking even more questions. Tense. Anxious. She was driving Villanelle up the proverbial wall.

Finally. She knew she had to stop it. So, early one evening, she told Prose that they were going to go out and do immersive training. Real world. Talk to real people. Make up a persona on the spot. Practice sleight of hand. And have a few drinks— she was done having to do this _sober_.

They had free reign of the Chameleon (the nickname for the prop and disguise area) and Villanelle critiqued the younger girl’s looks. ‘ _No, not an orange sweater. And what the hell is that beret supposed to do? Jeez. No. Just wear this. Classic. Little black dress. And yes, finally, a good choice.’_

Strappy Christian Loubotin sandals from the recent summer collection, a lace, black bustier dress, smokey eyeshadow, and teasing red lipstick. She almost didn’t look like her, a fact that Prose was quick to point out when she finally stood in front of the full-length mirrors that reflected almost every angle.

“You’re not supposed to look like yourself,” Villanelle said. “Not when on the job. You can have your own style. Your own comfort. Your own identity. But on the job, it is time to play. And you have to be able to play with the best.”

A pause and suddenly, an unsure tone. Her accent was stronger then. “I don’t knae if I can—“

“ _I_ know you can,” Villanelle plainly stated, allowing no room for arguments. She needed a drink. Or two. And unfortunately, she was still on duty, so she had to train this girl too. And she wasn’t going to let the whiny complaints get in the way of her plans.

Prose looked at herself in the mirror then. A moment. She then took in a deep breath before flashing her reflection a smile. A beautiful and charming smile, then, in a smooth French accent, she murmured in a hushed and promising tone, “well zen, shall we see what ze night has in store for us?”

After that. Everything actually went smoothly. The first bar they were at, Prose had outlined a very intricate story of how they were in Amsterdam as business development specialists who matched companies with the software they would need to expand their reach or capabilities. They had gotten multiple free drinks there _(hallelujah_ for most bars not carding and for them having high-quality fake IDs if needed) and had bounced after an hour.

The next bar they went to, Villanelle weaved the story and was slightly impressed when Prose didn’t skip a beat, adopted an American accent, and gushed about how she was ‘ _like soooo excited to be here!’_ And did they mention that they had just received their medical degrees and were about to start on their chosen residency program?

Grey Sloan Memorial Hospital for both of them, of course. And who needed their pulse checked? They were more than… _qualified._

They had a duo of obviously sleazy and _obviously_ rich men enchanted. And with great tandem work, they even managed to get one of them to buy them the most _expensive_ bottle of wine in the bar.

It was definitely a win. One they admired after they snuck out and headed to the next bar, their spoils piling up in the nondescript navy blue Volkswagen that their driver was waiting in.

A couple more bars were indulged in with Villanelle or Prose taking the lead and the other smoothly following. Less drinks, more spoils. Villanelle knew better than to be completely inebriated and though Prose’s cheeks were getting pink, she was still on top of it. They had to stay clear while their marks were better the more drunk they were. A watch here. A handkerchief there. Prose had even stealthily slipped an Hermès tie from someone’s neck.

It was exhilarating. And finally, at 2 AM, in the backseat of the Volkswagen, Villanelle asked for her driver to toss her the LV duffle bag on the passenger seat. She pulled out make-up wipes, a plastic bag, two MSGM sweaters (one in black, one in navy blue), two pairs of black Levi’s jeans, and two pairs of black, ankle-length Chloé boots.

The smell of fabric softener and leather filled Villanelle’s nose, and just a bit tipsy, she handed one of the outfits to Prose and instructed her to start changing. While they did so, she also told her driver (not yet Aaron) to go to the _Moon Garden._

She was hungry. And— she was having a not _so_ awful time. When they arrived there, Prose was a bit surprised to be in a dark alleyway. With a bright, neon sign proclaiming: _Moon Garden._

It was not a place she expected Villanelle— the fashion and indulgent lifestyle goddess— to go. Not with its ornate but old entrance, red paint peeling off, narrow entryway, and well— at least the inside was very clean, which one could see even with just the dim lighting.

“Come on, come on in, Emma,” the short and thin hostess with almond-shaped eyes ushered, an excited smile on her face. “I haven’t seen you in so long!” She said in a thick, Asian accent. _A Thai one_? Prose wondered as they were directed to a small, square table.

Villanelle smiled and engulfed the smaller Asian lady in a huge hug. “P̂ā,” she had said (a word that meant aunt in Thai, as Prose was to learn soon), “I’ve been good! But hungry too! Can we get an order of pad thai with beef? Spicy eggplant. Crispy veg— ”

“Ah, don’t worry! Don’t worry! I know what you’ll like!” the hostess said, hugging Villanelle back briefly before heading straight to the kitchen. “You’ve lost so much weight! I have to feed you! Have you not been eating?”

“I have P̂ā,” Villanelle called after her as she sat down. “Just not food as good as yours!”

Laughter from the kitchen. “Ay, you are _crazy!_ But don’t worry! I will feed you before you go crazier.”

Prose watched all of this with barely concealed amusement. She had alcohol in her system— and she smelled faintly of it to Villanelle, along with the scent of pomegranate, blackberry spice, and her laundry detergent. “You truly are… amazing,” the platinum blonde suddenly said as she sat down, making Villanelle scrutinize her with an appraising gaze.

_A deep breath._ A turn of the tide. “You aren’t too bad yourself,” she finally said. A concession. Maybe it _wouldn’t_ be too bad to have a little protégé…

—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? Even more prelude to the clever Target that eluded Sonnet? I am sure Villanelle's interest is quite piqued...
> 
> Who do you think it is?
> 
> A hint... she has amazing hair.
> 
> \--
> 
> Do you also associate certain places, people, and things with their own unique and special scent? This is a part of Villanelle that I have based on my own-- particular appreciation of of the natural fragrances the world has to offer. It is a very fascinating way to experience life, I believe. 
> 
> What do you think Amsterdam would smell like?


	3. Citron Vert et Premier Sang

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everyone! And have you heard that Killing Eve has announced the coming of a FOURTH SEASON? *fangirls* Now I just need to have them release season 3-- the wait is true torture. Are you ready? 
> 
> And here we have a flashback-- because what fanfic is complete without one? 
> 
> Shout-out to evepolastri for the reviews and the eagerness. I hope you will like this chapter as it will be all about our favorite Russian assassin-- as a 16 year old. 
> 
> And to everyone, please enjoy!

_ Chapter 3: Citron Vert et Premier Sang _

_ The Hole  _ was the nickname she had given the first apartment that she lived in by herself, at the young age of 16.

It was 9 years ago. She had had a good day. Her grades were excellent. Her maths teacher had sucked on her lower lip until it was bruised and had orgasmed three times around her long fingers throughout the long kissing session. And she had just broken her time record for her fastest mile:  _ 6 minutes and 22 seconds. _

All in all, she had a very wonderful day, indeed. One that was interwoven with the scent of sex, sweat, and—  _ she took in a deep breath—  _ the intoxicating, white flowers currently blooming forth from lime trees. It was early July in Italy, and the scent was ever-present— a scent that is reminiscent of smooth honey, crisp honeysuckle, and grass. 

When she made it home, to a picturesque two-story house with a private courtyard and garden, she unlocked the large wooden front door with her key and headed immediately to the kitchen. “Papa!” She greeted, seeing the tall, sturdily built man. He turned around and quickly had to drop the wooden spoon he was using to cook spaghetti with to catch his daughter— who had pretty much flung herself into his arms. 

_ “Oof,” _ he breathed out, the impact making him exhale. “I take it you had a good day, Oksana?” he asked as he tightened the hug and lifted the younger Villanelle off her feet. The blonde laughed and spread her arms up like she was on a roller-coaster ride. 

“Yes, papa!” she giggled, a wide smile on her lips, making her father, Konstantin Vasiliev, former Russian intelligence officer and former double-agent for MI5 and maybe the CIA and maybe the— well, maybe that’s a story for another time— laugh. He put her back on the floor and bent down to pick up the spoon. There were flecks of spaghetti sauce on the floor now, but not too much. 

Without skipping a beat, Oksana, as she was called, reached over to the sink to get a wet cloth and carefully cleaned up the mess. “Спасибо,” Konstantin said, thanking her in Russian, as he put the now dirty spoon in the sink and grabbed a new one. 

Oksana then washed out the rag and wrung it tightly before placing it on the ‘need to wash rags’ pile. “пожалуйста,” she replied. And then quickly added, “I want my own apartment.” 

Konstantin paused. He was just about to start stirring the pasta again, but  _ what?  _ “An apartment?” He parroted, turning around to face her. 

“Yes,” she said, eyes wide, lower lip protruding. “I want my own apartment. I’ve saved quite a bit of money, and I want my own apartment.”

A pause. “In Amsterdam.”

Konstantin blinked. Once. Twice, and rubbed his free hand over his face. Her own place? In _ Amsterdam?  _ It was hard enough trying to keep an eye on her when they lived in the same  _ building,  _ he cannot even begin to fathom what kind of mischief she’d be up to in another city.  _ Another country!  _

“Oksana, darling,” he finally sighed after a long minute of silence. “Why… why an apartment? And especially, why Amsterdam?”

Oksana decided to keep the part where she opened a map, threw a dart— which landed on Amsterdam purely by accident— a secret. “I did my research,” she bluffed confidently. “The cost of living there can easily be managed by a girl my age. I can get a job. Pay for rent. Still go to school—  _ they have great schools there too, did you know?—  _ and kind of be like a foreign exchange student. You and Irina can visit me!”

There, a great argument, mature, responsible, and includes the whole family—

“No.” 

Oksana heard a sound akin to lightning. A crack. A fizzle. Her hands slowly tightened into tight fists. “Excuse me?” she said, as if she was giving her father—  _ her own father—  _ a chance to say, ‘sorry, darling, just a sneeze. Of course you can get an apartment in Amsterdam!’

“No.” Konstantin stubbornly repeated, eyeing her warily. It had been a while since she had an episode, months matter-of-fact. The exercises had helped. The move. The new psychiatrist. The low-dose medication. She was doing so well—

“I see,” she stated, tone clipped and face now unreadable. Konstantin stepped forward, but she didn’t give him another second. She stepped back and started heading to the stairs, the second floor, her room. She stepped inside and slowly closed the door behind her, allowing it to creak loudly. 

Konstantin’s gaze remained where she had been. Apprehension slowly lining his face. This was not good. 

A hiss. He turned around,  _ fuck,  _ he shoved the wooden spoon into the pot and tried to stir the spaghetti. Unfortunately, a good amount was already burnt and stuck to the bottom.

_ Fuck,  _ he cursed again in his mind. Now he would have  _ two  _ daughters angry at him.

It started off slowly. All the movable furniture being shifted exactly two inches to the left, causing Konstantin to stub his toe and bang his knee almost every day. The doors propped wide open. The oven flame left on. The sound of loud scratching on wood that went on and on throughout the night…

He had assumed that Oksana was physically doing the scratching but after it kept going on even when he would go to her room to confront her about it, he realized that it was pre-recorded and soon enough, found the audio recorder that it was coming from. It was wedged tightly into a small space beneath his night stand. 

The recorder was his birthday gift to her a few months ago— and of course it would come back to bite him in the ass— and he couldn't help but sigh when he found it. A week. A week had gone by since that day, and his eldest daughter was already steadily escalating. 

The plants displayed in the living room were all dead, over-watered, and of course, Oksana had absolutely  _ nothing  _ to do with any of it. The perfect picture of innocence. Studied hard. Excelled in her extracurriculars. Got captain of the debate team and  _ guess  _ what? Broke her own personal record for a mile run again: this time  _ 6 minutes and 18 seconds. _

He was being gaslighted— by his own wonderfully brilliant psychopath of a daughter. 

He wasn’t even sure how this happened. What went… completely  _ sideways.  _ Not just the current situation, no, but the whole— _ her _ . Oksana. Because, yes, he did his best to be a good father. Tried to be as present as possible. Even quit the lifelong career he had built in secret intelligence two years after she was born, an act that his dearly departed wife had constantly begged of him, and started his own business. 

Was it because he was too late? Should he have quit the moment she was born? Should he have talked to her more while she was in her mother’s womb? Should he have been there to hold her when she took her first breath? Was that it? His absence in her first few minutes of life? 

Or was it her mother’s illness? The pancreatic cancer, the unrelenting and ruthless disease that it was. She was still so young when she had to watch her mother slowly wither away in front of her. And so  _ maybe  _ that was that it? The absence of a parent during her infancy, and the death of the other at the young age of 6… 

Even though her mother loved her dearly, until her last breath. Even though her father constantly tried to make up for lost time, never truly being able to do so, or so it seemed… because Oksana remained different. 

Even as a child— she was charming. Smoothly so, almost as if practiced. And her eyes never truly reflected the emotions that her face displayed. He even caught her a few times, standing in front of a mirror, saying an emotion, and then following it with a carefully cultivated facial expression that matched the word. It unnerved him, greatly. And the worst part was when she said, ‘sad’ and demonstrated the same look she had during her mother’s funeral. 

She was also remorseless, quickly picking fights with whoever she felt were rude or disrespectful to her, regardless of their age, sex, or height; even sending a boy  _ twice  _ her age to the hospital by stabbing his leg with a sharpened pencil after he had pushed her down onto a puddle. 

She claimed that it was fair retaliation. The boy claimed that he had just bumped into her by accident and had even tried to help her up. But she was too—  _ too good _ and even Konstantin knew it. So he quietly settled that matter with the boy’s family and immediately moved his own to another city. 

And it only got worse. Age 6, the practiced emotions and superficial charm. Age 7, the unwarranted physical attacks. Brutal and calculating. Age 8, the small fires set around the little town in Alaska. The almost ravenous desire to learn how to hunt and trap while they lived in that frozen state— and while the other girls wanted to play with dolls and to learn ballet, Oksana had taken to hunting like fish takes to water. 

From waterfowl and small game to mountain goats, moose, wolves, elk, bears, bison, and more, she tracked them all, trailed them, killed them, and gutted them. And Konstantin had to bear witness to it all— because no matter how  _ sick  _ his daughter most likely was. She was still  _ his  _ daughter. And she, stubborn as she was, would have gone into those woods by herself if it came down to it, and Konstantin would have never forgiven himself if anything bad had happened to her. And he knew that her mother, his beloved wife, would never forgive him as well. 

So it was a great contrast. He had a budding psychopath for a daughter and instead of keeping her away from all the terrible things in life— he immersed her in them instead. But not in the way that he  _ felt  _ would be harmful to her. He immersed her in a way that he  _ felt  _ would keep her and those  _ around  _ her safe. 

She had a hunger for knowledge of dangerous activities: martial arts, knives, weapons, hunting, explosives, and more— and Konstantin believing— **knowing** — he couldn’t stop her from trying to gain all this knowledge, decided to teach them to her himself: safely, sanely, and with a great emphasis on control and discipline. Like a soldier for war, and he was the best kind of father for that. 

He taught her how to fight (when necessary), how to kill (only when there was no other choice), how to hunt (for food), how to survive in the wilderness— etc. And what he couldn’t teach her, he hired the best tutors for. She wanted to learn to ride horses? Of course. She wanted to learn how to develop software and hack into computers? Definitely. Anything she wanted to learn, he ensured, in the hope— the strongest hope (powered on by unconditional paternal love) that the knowledge and the discipline would prevent her from committing unholy crimes or acts that Konstantin knew that even he couldn’t save her soul from…

—

And it worked. Mostly. Always learning, always learning, she stayed preoccupied. And whatever it was she learned, she excelled in. It gave her a sense of pride, a sense of responsibility (or maybe that’s what Konstantin hoped), and a sense of… transcendence. If that makes any sense at all. 

It was, as if — to Konstantin at least— she had risen above those around her. As if she didn’t even have to bother herself with having to cause an altercation with them, only doing so if she was truly offended. And her retaliation— was no longer quick and brutal, but planned, conniving, and somehow… even more  _ ruthless.  _

And untraceable back to her.

She no longer hurt anybody physically, no (at least, not that he knew of, and he knew most everything). She would usually get that aggression out during the vicious training sessions she had in her Krav Maga, Muay Thai, and multiple other martial arts and fighting classes. And what she didn’t get out then, she would hold in until she went on the  _ special hunting trips  _ with her father. Those that he had designed just for her. 

And she was shrewd, with genius level intellect, and she had learned (after years of the fact being drilled into her brain) that her life was much better within the law than out of it. She could manipulate people as she wanted. She could freely travel as she wanted. Her family was rich, and she didn’t have to scrounge for money or look over her shoulder every second (wary of being arrested). And she loved her lifestyle, a fact that everyone around her knew. 

Especially Konstantin.  _ Poor Konstantin, _ who now held the audio recorder in his hand. Who had debated with himself daily if he should just concede to his daughter’s wants.  _ Amsterdam  _ truly was beautiful, and it had the  _ Schiphol  _ airport: it was a good city to be for a business that required a lot of international travel. Also, they had stroopwafel, delicious crunchy little snacks that he loved to indulge in whenever he was there.

Besides, she was doing so well. She deserved a reward,  _ didn’t she?  _

He carefully placed the recorder on the table in front of him. He couldn’t just cage her in the house forever— then all those years of trying to mold her, train her, discipline her (or teaching her to discipline herself) would be for nothing. He might as well just have had her institutionalized, with a tight ‘hug yourself’ jacket, and perpetually doped up on multiple meds.

He couldn’t do that. Not to Oksana. Not to his beautiful, radiant, clever, conniving, sly— undoubtedly holy terror of a child. He never could. Especially not after she had started saying, “papa, I love you,” like she meant it. 

So. He heard the front door open and sighed.  _ Amsterdam it is then. _

“It is unfair,” Oksana firmly stated, licking the hazelnut gelato on a cone that she was carrying. “You shouldn’t have learned Mandarin before me.”

Irina, her younger sister by two years, flashed her a look of disbelief. “You must be joking. It’s not like there’s a checklist of skills, and  _ you _ have to learn them first before I can get a go ahead. Besides, you were too busy learning archery while my wonderful teacher was here. You didn’t even cast him a single  _ glance!”  _

Oksana’s gaze shifted to the left and upwards, a sign that she was trying to remember something, “was he that rickety old man that wore pajamas all the time?” 

Irina rolled her eyes, “that was traditional Chinese garb, dick,” she said, talking with her hands, brandishing her own lemon gelato cone. Oksana laughed and then stuck out her tongue. 

“Who taught you how to curse, ah? My innocent little sister cursing now and calling me dick,” she arched a brow. “Who do I have to  _ kill _ ?” 

A pause. Then Irina, the one person that never seemed to incur Oksana’s wrath— the only person she never set her malicious machinations on— smirked and said, “you did. And you know it! You curse all the time!” 

Oksana’s eyes widened and she laughed again. “Oh yeah,” she admitted. “My bad, dickswab.” 

_ “Hey!”  _ Irina yelped. “Now that’s mean. Wait until I tell father— ”

“Tell me what?” Konstantin asked as he finally stepped into view. 

Oksana cast a conspiratorial look at Irina, her eyes sort of waggling, making her younger sister laugh as she said, “that the movie we watched was a great insult to bearded men everywhere! Unlike you, papa, you look wonderful.” 

She stepped forward and greeted him with a kiss on the cheek, an act also copied by Irina, who was still smiling in amusement at her sister’s antics.

Konstantin couldn’t help but smile as well. No matter what happened, what Oksana is, her and Irina had always gotten along so well, and that he was very grateful for, even though he could never really wrap his head around it. Maybe… maybe some things were just meant to be accepted. 

He kissed both of his daughters on the forehead, and evenly said, “It's time to pack your bags again, we’re moving.”

Oksana looked at him with a quirked brow. “Amsterdam?” She asked, a small smirk curling her full lips. 

Konstantin sighed heavily and said, “yes. Amsterdam.”

“And I will have my own place?” 

“Yes, you will have your own place.”

A second. A beat. “I told you that recording would work.” 

It was Irina, having finished her gelato, who was now smirking triumphantly at Oksana, who rolled her eyes. “I did all the work, that was just  _ one  _ suggestion!”

Wait a second, Konstantin’s gaze switched from between his two daughters rapidly.  _ What?  _

“Excuse me, what?”

But Oksana and Irina were already slipping past him and up the stairs with choruses of  _ ‘love you, papa,’ ‘we’ll start packing now,’  _ and  _ ‘no, I did it!’  _

Konstantin was surprised, and it took him a long minute before he could run up the stairs after them, saying,  _ “girls? Girlsssss?!” _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading my work. I sincerely hope all of you will have a wonderful 2020. I hope to continue updating this work regularly and yes, VillanEve is end-game-- just a very slow burn. Also, there will be more explorations on Villanelle's past, training, family, etc. 
> 
> I have always felt that Konstantin cares deeply for Villanelle, and I wanted to include it in this fic by making him her father-- how he loves her deeply regardless of what he believes her to be. I think that's one of the greatest things about parents, their unconditional love. What do you think of their relationship? 
> 
> Also. Sisters, amiright? And the youngest is usually the most conniving one. Well, that's how it is in my family (speaking as the youngest, of course, haha.).
> 
> I hope I gave justice to their portrayals and relationships. Let me know what you think!
> 
> Until next time-- Thank you all very much!


	4. Ambre Nuit et Faubourg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update took a lot of writing, editing, re-writing, and even more editing-- it almost felt like it didn't want to be written-- or maybe I am just too critical. Anyway, I hope you will enjoy this continued exploration of the enigmatic woman herself, Villanelle. 
> 
> And I know this update is late compared to my previous regular updates, please, forgive this poor writer. :(

_ Chapter 4: Ambre Nuit et Faubourg _

* * *

  
  


Villanelle opened the door to her home in Amsterdam— the penthouse flat of an impressive eight-floored building with exquisite masonry, expansive windows, and custom luxury designs for each floor. Hers was a stunning model that combined both a classic traditional base and modern sleekness— and her own personal touches, of course, mostly mementos she had collected from the many places she traveled. 

The floors were all hardwood, polished and diligently maintained. The Poggenpohl kitchen featured honed grey quartz countertops, a white, natural wood breakfast bar, and stainless steel appliances. There were also two bedrooms with their own personal full baths attached, with floating vanities, deep and spacious tubs, and impeccably crafted fixtures and cabinets. 

_ The Hole _ boasted of two balconies as well, one for the master bedroom, and one for the living room: each one presenting a fascinating view of the city and outlying areas. The high glass facades of those balcony entryways allowed natural light to flood the penthouse and were seamless connections between the inside and the outside. 

Beautiful. All around. Just… _ stunning _ . 

Villanelle looked around her flat in contentment and slowly took in a deep, almost hungry breath:  _ freshly washed linen, white orchid, jasmine petals, and— hmm, Christian Dior’s Ambre Nuit Cologne.  _

Father has been to visit multiple times, most likely to take care of her beloved penthouse in her absence. Also, probably, to just enjoy the view and relax. It truly was a very relaxing place, one of the few where she felt that she could truly just unwind and lounge around in luxurious satin robes. An image that she was planning on replicating in real life as soon as possible. 

So, she systematically began her ‘glad to be back home’ routine. She put up her go-bag (having learned to travel lightly) and the two knives she always carried around with her (one strapped tightly to her calf and one in her custom belt sheath knife holders). Then she went to the master bathroom and started running herself a hot bath. She had texted Father earlier and had asked when he’ll be over. He had informed her that it would be an hour before he would arrive and had asked:  _ ‘are you hungry?’  _ Prompting her to quickly text back:  _ Only for krokets and stroopwafel!  _ ; ) 

She slowly started stripping, taking off one piece at a time and putting it in the laundry hamper. 

How many times had she done this routine? Tens? Dozens? She thinks at least more than a hundred. Pack to go complete a contract and then come home and unpack for a quick break in between, starting from when she was 18. And every time she came home, she took a bath. A long, cleansing bath. What she was cleansing off— she was still trying to figure out.

Steam started to come from the hot water and Villanelle carefully checked the temperature.  _ Almost  _ scalding hot. Just like how she liked it. So, finally naked, she stepped over the high lip of the tub and then slowly slid her body into the water. 

The hot water was gradually turning her skin red, almost like a pleasurable pain, and she couldn’t help but relish the sting of it as she started washing herself. 

Carefully, she began to scrub off her perfume, lotion, sanitizer— everything that had a scent— leaving behind only smooth, flawless skin. 

Strange as it was, Villanelle had never been able to smell herself. If she had a scent, or not, she could never really confirm it. She had asked her past lovers, of course, if they enjoyed her scent (because asking ‘can you smell me?’ usually just got confused looks). But the answers they offered:  _ lemon, rose cedar, jasmine, iris, etc.,  _ just coincided with what perfume, cologne, or body wash she had used that day. 

So it remained a mystery, one that troubled her during sporadic occasions, making her wonder why it was so that she could not smell herself. And why she could smell everything else so well...

—

A few minutes passed and Villanelle continued to scrub herself clean, taking her time and meticulously scouring each inch of her lithe form. She traced the lines of her muscles, the swell of her breasts, the dip of her hips— her thighs, her legs— as if in homage, in adoration, in reverence.

_ Narcissist,  _ they labeled her. Vain. Egotistic.  _ Maniac—  _

She leaned back in the tub, laying her head on the delicately carved headrest, and stared up at the ceiling which was made up of an amalgamation of abstractly shaped mirror tiles. 

“Beautiful,” she softly murmured, staring up at her reflection. An upward quirk of the lips, she raised her arm, fingers curled into a tight fist. Then, she extended her forefinger and pulled back her thumb. 

Closing one eye, she aimed straight at the reflection of her sternum and whispered:

_ “Bang bang.” _

* * *

Villanelle stood, resplendent in an Olivia Von Halle’s silk robe with a navy blue background and embroidered with ivory prowling tigers finished with opulent beads and sequins. Her cognizant gaze lazily traced her own form through half-lidded eyes...

_ Exquisite _ . 

She had just finished getting dressed and was now waiting for Father to arrive. It was almost an hour since she had gotten home, and her mouth was already watering at the thought of krokets and stroopwafels. The hot gooeyness and the creamy pastry—

_ Ding-Ding.  _

Villanelle quietly padded over to the front door and stood in a narrow niche right next to it. It was a structural design that she had requested so that she could peek through a hole bored to the other side of thick, solid cement and was disguised by a modern and abstract oil painting.

Squinting slightly, she saw the familiar form of Father and a young woman with short-cropped auburn hair. She took in a deep breath—  _ Father’s cologne and the gently mixed scent of orange blossom, jasmine, tiare flower, patchouli, ylang-ylang, vanilla, ambergris, sandalwood, and iris  _ (Hermès 24 Faubourg). She knew that scent.

She took in a deeper breath.

In this moment— with those scents swirling in her head— she was back. She was  _ Oksana.  _

Oksana swung open the door and, in great excitement and exuberance, wrapped the only night  _ slightly  _ taller Konstantin Vasiliev in a tight hug.  _ “Papa!”  _ She exclaimed, a wide smile curling her lips. He, in turn, wrapped her up in a powerful embrace and lifted her off her feet, an act that he always tried to do whenever they would have these  _ ‘haven’t seen you in a while, and I miss you’  _ hugs— even if it was getting harder and harder each time with his eldest daughter growing up, and him— growing older. 

“ _ Kotenok _ ,” he greeted warmly as he carefully put her back on the floor. “You look well!” He reached up and fondly patted her smooth cheeks with his roughened palms. Oksana’s eyes crinkled with glee as she took in his words. “Thank you papa!” She said before looking past his shoulder towards the amused gaze of the young woman behind me. 

_ “Porosenok _ ,” she whispered, the word laced with delight and tender affection. Konstantin smiled and stepped to the side as Oksana stepped forward and, in the act of preparing to embrace the other woman, got wrapped in a fierce hug from her instead. 

“I am  _ glad  _ you are home,” the shorter woman whispered, tucking her head under Oksana’s chin. 

“My job is no more dangerous than yours,” Oksana teased as she returned the hug just as firmly. It had only been two weeks, but every time she saw her— Irina, her  _ magnificent _ younger sister— she couldn’t help but feel like she was growing more each time, not physically, no. But more like… in  _ essence _ . As a person. Evolving. Maturing—

As if her very soul, if there was such a thing, the crux of her existence was only flourishing more and more.  _ Thriving.  _ Oksana slowly, reluctantly, pulled back and tracked perusing eyes over her sister’s face. 

Over the years, Irina’s chubby face had leaned, leaving just smoothly rounded cheeks. Her eyes were bright, hazel— like hers— but had a stronger tint of green and her curly auburn hair was styled in a classy pixie cut that had slightly longer bangs and shaved sides, giving it a feminine yet edgy vibe.

That was new, Oksana observed, the haircut was. “Your hair looks fan- _ fucking- _ tastic,” she then said with an approving nod, making Irina laugh. She had on a green ( couple of shades darker than her eyes) rib knit turtleneck sweater, a pair of black  _ Olsthoorn Vanderwilt  _ leather pants, and what looked like— Oksana stepped back even more and tilted her head down—  _ Gucci _ leather mid-heel pumps. 

“And your style is getting hotter and hotter,” she stated, arching a noble brow. “Are we getting some gardening done, Porosenok?” She teased, now waggling both eyebrows at Irina. “Doing a lot of  _ hoe-ing  _ around if you— ”

“As I have said, I am glad you are home,” Irina smoothly interrupted as she raised a hand that had been holding a big bag. The tempting smell of honey, pastries, and fatty grease wafted deliciously in Oksana’s direction. “So shall we go in and eat before you ruin dad’s appetite?” 

She jerked a thumb at his direction. Oksana turned to look at him and— having no decency— said, “but dad, of course she has sex, did you not know that? Did you not teach her about the  _ birdsss and the beeeesss—” _

“Okay, that’s enough,” Irina firmly stated as she began to playfully push Oksana back into the flat. “I’m hungry, and I am sooooo not discussing this right now.” 

Oksana laughed, greatly amused as she let Irina manually get her back into the flat with Konstantin quick to follow and then close the door behind them, locking it. 

_ “Plllease  _ tell me you at least use prote—”

_ “Oksannaaa!” _

* * *

Oksana ate with gusto, starting off with the krokets, and savoring their crispy and crunchy outer layer and their super soft and smooth filling: meat ragout. She happily chomped on the delicious cylinders, dipping them in mustard or her own signature creamy jalapeño mayo sauce. 

Every bite was a perfect combination of buttery richness and holy creaminess— her eyes closed as she reveled in the heavenly combination. 

“So, how was Vienna?” Irina asked, biting into her own kroket.

Oksana slowly opened just her left eye and thoughtfully regarded the younger woman. She then chewed, swallowed, blinked, and then fully opened both eyes.

“It was wonderful,” she started. “I went to the Naschmart and had gotten these really ripe, really juicy peaches. Delicious. I also pretty much stuffed myself with apple strudel.  _ Damn.  _ They were perfect! Flaky and buttery and just… mmhmm,” Oksana’s eyes seemed to almost glaze over at the memory of the food she had eaten. 

“You’re such a fat soul,” Irina said, shaking her head slightly. Then, smiling impishly, asked, “so, did you bring me the  _ thing _ ?” 

Oksana’s own lips spread into a proud grin— a look that had Konstantin take pause in eating four stroopwafels stacked together in his right hand. 

“The thing?” he asked before shoving the whole stack in his mouth. 

_ “Yessss,”  _ Oksana gushed, jumping up and going back into the flat from the balcony, heading towards the kitchen. She had had Aaron deliver the package to her flat after arriving in Amsterdam— as she had a few errands she needed to run and didn’t want to just drag the ‘thing’ around with her.

After a minute, she came back, one hand balancing three rose-pink plates piled on top of each other with three forks, three linen napkins, and a large knife; and the other hand carrying an elegant wooden box. 

With a dramatic flourish, she placed the items on the glass table in the middle of the setting and said,  _ “Voilà!  _ The original Sacher Torte from the  _ Hotel Sacher!”  _

Konstantin, seeing the familiar box, couldn’t help but smile in recognition. It was their mother’s favorite dessert, a fact that Oksana had ensured her younger sister was aware of— and a delectable delicacy that both his daughters were quite fond of. 

Irina, seeing the box, clapped her hands in satisfaction. “I’ll get the whipped cream while you cut us a slice!” 

Oksana took up the knife and brandished it aptly, “of course. It is my expertise!” There was a sharp glint in her eye as she started to cut into the cake, and Konstantin couldn’t help but admire her clean, smooth strokes (even in just slicing a cake) as Irina got up to get the perfect companion to the decadent chocolate cake.

Each slice was precise and three equally shaped pieces were soon placed on a pink plate. Oksana smirked approvingly at her work and then put one plate in front of Konstantin and Irina, who had come back with a container of unsweetened whipped cream: the traditional partner of the Sacher Torte. 

The two layers of soft and light chocolate cake. The thin layers of apricot jam. And the dark chocolate icing that coated it all…

Konstantin’s gaze on the Torte softened, remembering times past— remembering long, dark blonde hair and gentle emerald eyes. He felt his heart ache. 

For a moment. Or two. 

Or more…

He sighed softly and then reached for his plate after Irina had placed a generous dollop of whipped cream on top of the slice of Torte on it. If only Katya were here now. 

He slowly ate a spoonful of the delicate dessert and closed his eyes.

Of her daughters, he knew,  _ she would be so proud. _

__

Once all the food was gone, Oksana opened a bottle of champagne: a Moët and Chandon Nectar Imperial— it was not her first choice for herself, unfortunately, but it was one of the few champagnes that all three of them liked. 

So, taking great care, she poured the champagne into each glass, the effervescent liquid flowing like a sparkling waterfall. Then, she put down the bottle and raised her own flute to her lips, taking a small sip. 

Delicate sweetness that balanced nicely with the bubbles gently caressed her taste buds; with the taste of ripe pears, fresh vanilla, and roasted almonds quickly following through.

_ Refreshing.  _

_ “Aaah,”  _ Konstantin softly exhaled in appreciation after he took his own first, long sip. “Nothing like a good drink to finish off a meal.”

Oksana nodded in approval as Irina agreeably stated, “I didn’t even know how hungry I was until we started eating. God. Now I feel much better.” Irina’s accent was the lightest out of all three of them, almost indistinguishable to the untrained ear.

Maybe it was because she had stayed in Russia the least— or maybe it was just that they moved around a whole lot more after she was born, what with Konstantin having to travel frequently to manage his business. 

Regardless, it was something that Oksana had noticed more recently: making her wonder if it was something she should start working on— but  _ then again _ , most women loved her accent, especially the slick roll of her Rs and her soft Es.

A comfortable period of silence followed, with each person quietly enjoying their own drink. Then, a clink of glass: champagne flute to table. 

“What are you doing tonight?” Irina directed towards Oksana. 

The older woman placed her drink on the table as well and replied, “Moon Garden with Prose. But it’s not until 8 PM.”

Her answer prompted Irina to glance at her watch: it was  _ 6:30 PM _ . “Ah, is it an auspicious night?” she asked, making Oksana grin.

“I won’t know until I get there, but I do feel like  _ lucky _ .”

Irina mirrored her sly grin almost exactly. “Be careful. And don’t forget that we have the final Conclusion with your client tomorrow. 11 AM. Sharp, with—”

“An hour to get ready. So yes, come in at 10 AM.  _ And do I have my notes ready _ ? Of course I do.  _ Are they meticulous?  _ Definitely! I have learned the format you gave me and followed it  _ exactly. _ As always. Also, I’ve double-checked all the diagrams and blueprints for presentation,  _ Captain _ ,” Oksana winked at Irina, whose cheeks pinked slightly— Even though Oksana’s tone was more teasing than admonishing.

“Thanks  _ matey _ ,” Irina responded with a sardonic curl of the lips, making Oksana stick her tongue out at her. 

They did their best to separate their personal lives with their business lives— always strictly indicating which get-togethers are work meetings and which ones are family gatherings (though three people couldn’t really be considered a  _ gathering _ ). It was a practice that had been taken up ever since Oksana and Irina had joined the family business, one that Konstantin was quite  _ unshakable  _ about. 

He firmly believed that it would prevent work tension from seeping into their everyday lives (even though they were all workaholics and didn’t really rest until their goals were reached), lessen careless information leaks, promote better rest, and help maintain close family bonds: a concept that seemed to work well since they almost never fought or argued about work.

Well,  _ almost. _

Oksana took another sip of her drink as she leaned back against the chaise she was on. She was glad that her father had brought Irina with her. She had texted the younger woman earlier about being home but had not gotten a response. She assumed it was because she may have been engrossed in her work again, scanning document after document, translating exchanges, contacting employees, etc. Etc. 

She had always been much better with desk work than Oksana, who would probably—  _ literally _ — die of boredom and feel wickedly tortured the whole time. 

“And you? What are your plans?” Oksana asked, lifting a questioning brow.

“Sleep,” Irina said with a look of relief taking over her face. “I’m tired as hell and can’t wait to just slide into bed. I’ve been up for about 26 hours now— that damn fiasco in Italy was — _ ugh _ , I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.” She stopped and shook her head, realizing she was about to start talking about work. 

Oksana nodded, accepting her words before shifting her attention to Konstantin. “And you, papa?” 

Konstantin finished off his flute and placed it on the table. “The same,” he answered, his deep voice suddenly sounding quite drained, “Go home, shower, and sleep. Like a  _ tired little baby.  _ Or somebody in a coma— hopefully.” 

Oksana nodded her head again.  _ Damn.  _ Maybe Italy was more serious than she had assumed— 

“Which is why I think we should go ahead,” Konstantin suddenly announced as he got up. “I had a great time, _ Kotenok _ ,” he murmured affectionately as he stepped over to his eldest daughter and gently kissed her on the forehead. “And it is always good to see you, but my bed is calling.” 

Oksana smiled up at her father, her eyes soft, almost gentle. She had learned years ago that allowing her tiredness to seep into her eyes was one of the best ways she could mimic a kind of tenderness that people searched for in a gaze. Tiredness, relaxed brows, a softness to the lips, and lowered eyelids— mixed, sometimes in different ratios— equalled to looks of empathy, sympathy, or understanding. 

And most times, they worked. 

Like this time.

A breath. And then Irina stood up as well, quickly followed by Oksana who planned on walking them to the door. Konstantin walked out first, after another hug, wanting to make sure that their ride had arrived and was ready for them. 

Irina paused at the doorway, watched their father walk to the lift, and promptly turned to Oksana when he got in. 

“I  _ am _ glad you are safe,” she said, taking her older sister in for another hug. Firm. Strong. An undercurrent of intensity sizzled under her hold and Oksana tightly hugged her back as well. 

“I will always come back, _ Porosenok, _ ” she murmured softly into the shorter woman’s ear. 

She took in a deep inhale. And breathed in— beyond that  _ mixed scent of orange blossom, jasmine, tiare flower, patchouli, ylang-ylang, vanilla, ambergris, sandalwood, and iris—  _ a delicate citrusy scent, tangerines.

She closed her eyes and pulled Irina even tighter to her. A constant. Solid. Devoted. Unwavering…

The memory flashed in her mind then— of years ago. Two years after she had moved out. When she had just finished her fourth real mission for her father’s company. 

She remembered.

That night, all she could smell was tangerines...

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Porosenok means little piglet.   
> ** The robe she is wearing in this chapter is the one she is wearing in Season 2, Episode 7- Wide Awake.
> 
> Who wouldn't want to live in The Hole? Sounds like such a great place to relax in between missions, right? And familial and domestic bliss, who would have known that Villanelle could be capable of such activities? -- maybe this version of her at least. Of course, I'm trying to stay as true to her character in the TV series as much as possible, but changes have to be made for the sake of the plot. Still, any suggestions or criticism is greatly welcomed. Not just for her character but also the others. Thank you.
> 
> Also, the Sacher Torte looks soooo fucking good. Bless Villanelle's good taste for food.
> 
> Let me know if there are more avenues or facets about Villanelle that you are curious about and would like to have explored more. I hope you enjoyed this new chapter! Tell me what you think :)


	5. Tranches de Mandarine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it has been a long time since I updated this fic, and I apologize. So much has happened, I have been busy with work, family, etc. And now we are having a global pandemic, and the Intensive Care Unit that I am working in has now been converted into becoming the COVID-19 ICU. With this quarantine though, I have finally been able to have enough free time to continue this story, so I sincerely hope that you will enjoy this update during your stay at home :)
> 
> Thank you evepolastri for your continued support for this work and for leaving the most wonderful and extensive reviews. I am humbled by your words, and I hope you will continue to like this story! Thank you very, very, very much! And enjoy!!!

_ Chapter 5: Tranches de Mandarine _

  
  


It was a new kind of assignment, one that she had not done before.

Still. 

She didn’t think it would be too difficult as she has had to infiltrate camps (even prior to being a Poet) and eliminate groups before, but tonight— tonight her target was a family of four. Father. Mother. And two young daughters, ages 2 and 6 respectively. 

The father was a politician, and the mother was an accountant. Both of them offered no struggle as she expertly used her favorite knife on them: a deadly masterpiece with a blade made of Damascus steel and a handle featuring a full tang, which meant that the blade goes down the full length of the handle. 

The blade was exquisitely sharp with intricate designs, and the handle was made of walnut: stable, lightweight, and with beautiful grain patterns. It was a gift from Irina, and one of the reasons why she liked it so.

Her sister always did know what she liked—

A sound. Muffled footsteps. Villanelle slid behind an open door in the hallway. It was 2 o’ clock in the morning, on January 1st. The first day of the New Year, and she watched through the little space where the door was hinged to its frame as a young girl with long, blonde hair ran back up the stairs with half a tangerine in one hand. 

_ A late snack?  _ Villanelle assumed.  _ Naughty naughty,  _ a child shouldn’t be rummaging in the kitchen for fruits at this time. It could be… 

_ Dangerous. _

Villanelle could not help but smirk in amusement at her own joke, right hand holding her knife in front of her. She then took in a deep breath, following the trail of the very sweet hesperidic and honeyed scent, sweeter even than oranges.

She was glad she had chosen that night— as it was one of the very few nights everyone was actually home and in bed right after midnight. A night when the father was not _screwing_ his assistant and when the mother was not up late trying to help her boss hide his trail of embezzlement in exchange for a fatter check. It was a very _naughty_ family indeed. 

Villanelle stood outside the door that the child had gone in. Patiently, she waited. She had the time. The family had only six security guards (that guarded only the perimeter) and just two more security measures: a beautiful black Doberman (the only breed she liked due to its demonic facade and sleek features) and a security alarm. 

The alarm system in place  _ was  _ good, that she would concede to, but it wasn’t completely impenetrable. And the dog? Just a wonderful puppy that she had easily befriended. As unbeknownst to many, Villanelle had electively taken up very intensive training in subduing or calming guard dogs: a skill that not many tried to hone. 

But she was very interested in learning how to make a trained beast — with its growling mouth and heaving chest— betray its master. 

She then learned soon enough that most dogs didn’t even respond violently to her— most of the time, they would see her, smell her, and then—  _ shrink _ back. Or whimper. Like they knew something was  _ wrong _ with her. So her training actually involved either soothing them or quieting them. 

And the Doberman was no different. 

He was just outside the parents’ bedroom door, on the carpet, not even on a bed —  _ bastards  _ — and he immediately perked up when Villanelle approached him. 

A snarl almost escaped his lips, but then— from being on the alert with his haunches raised and his ears standing straight up— his whole demeanor suddenly changed. He began to shrink into himself.

Like someone  _ dying... _

His eyes began to empty. His soul was going in— 

Villanelle had heard people say that in death, they think that someone’s soul, or personality, or whatever, leaves their body when they die. But she’s seen it happen, looked right into their emptying eyes as they take their last breath, and she swears it just goes further in. 

It falls so far in that it becomes so small that it can’t control the body anymore, and it is just in there— tiny, forever. 

Villanelle saw the shrinking and fluidly got down to her knees in front of the terrified dog. Then, she relaxed her body. 

Dogs are very, very intuitive and responded well to the aura of those around them— something that her murderous intent did not help with— so she tried to make herself radiate more relaxing air. Lowering herself down to his level was a calculated decision too, as no dog could be calmed down by a towering threat.

Then, making direct eye contact with the dog (whose eyes had finally stopped emptying), she slowly reached into one of her many pockets and took out a bag of treats. He cautiously tilted his head towards the bag, curious.

Villanelle opened the bag and pulled out a good amount before holding it out to him: soft-baked chicken and bacon bites. He looked at the food, then her, suspicious. 

She raised a brow back at him. Squinted. And then waggled both brows:  _ come on, puppy, puppy.  _

It was another long minute before he finally took the treats. And then Villanelle was in the bedroom, playing with her knife. 

———

Now, she was here. Standing in front of the children’s door. 

She was waiting for the child that she had seen to go back to sleep. Did not want them screaming and sounding the alarm. But it was going to take a while it seemed— she could still smell the juicy Tangerine and hear  _ messy _ slurping coming from inside the room. 

_ Tangerines.  _

That was Irina’s favorite New Year’s treat too— and she would eat so many, prompting Villanelle to tease the younger girl about reeking of it— 

Irina, her sister. Still so young. Still so naïve— devoted to  _ her _ , of all people.

She wondered what would happen if Irina knew what she was doing now, standing like a statue outside of a room of sisters, a knife held tightly in one hand. Would she be disgusted? Would she be disappointed? Would that look of adoration on her face morph into hateful and fearful looks? 

The illusion would be shattered.

There would no longer be any shared slices of tangerines. 

Lost in thought, she didn’t sense him before he touched his cold nose to the hand holding her knife. 

_ Fuck. _

She looked down and saw the Doberman. Her knuckles were white, tight around her knife. He gazed back up at her and then nuzzled the pocket that the treats from earlier had come from. 

Villanelle could appreciate a creature encouraged by hunger, as she too loved to eat. So, after a quick eye-roll, she put her knife back into its sheath and pulled out the dog treats. 

_ I suppose you can have the rest if you wait with me, puppy. _

  
  
  


_ ——— _

An hour before dawn, Villanelle was back home. Not  _ The Hole _ , no. This time, in the Amsterdam home of Konstantin Vasiliev and Irina Astankova (both sisters had kept their mother’s maiden name as Konstantin and Katya had thought it more prudent and safer for them, what with Konstantin’s work in secret intelligence). 

Villanelle carefully limped through the entryway and into the kitchen. Her ankle was sprained, thankfully, not broken. She had gotten distracted as she was sneaking out the back, the  _ — so-not-cute— _ Doberman having followed her down and trying to go out with her, making her slide on a patch of slick ice.

_ Damn, fucking puppies,  _ she cursed in her head as she opened the freezer and peered into it, hoping to find a cold bag of peas or whatever to help with the sting.

_ “Oksana?” _

She took in a deep breath. Tangerines. She was starting to get sick of that smell for the night. 

“Yes,” she finally answered after a while, having found a frozen bag of mixed vegetables.  _ Perfect. _

She grabbed the bag, closed the freezer, and turned towards the kitchen doorway, where Irina was now standing.

“Are you okay?” Irina asked, young face lined with concern.

Oksana could feel her irritation reaching an  _ almost  _ dangerous level— and snapped out, “I’m  _ fucking  _ fantastic. Just a sprain, mind you. It’s all great, so just let me  _ limp  _ to my fucking room in peace.”

Irina’s expression only became more worried. “Your room? Maybe you should stay in the living room? So you don’t have to climb any more stairs, I’ll even bring you a blanket.” 

_ Fuck her reasoning. Fuck her for being right. Fuck, her ankle was really throbbing now— _

_ “Damn it _ ,” Oksana hissed. “Fine,  _ fine _ . I’ll stay in the damn living room. And bring me the Merino blanket.” Her tone was petulant, and her walk was becoming more unsteady. 

It took her a bit of time to finally get to the couch and lay in it. Irina then took the bag of vegetables from her and put it on her ankle before spreading the blanket over her.

Oksana then looked over to Irina. She looked younger in the dark. Not as young as the children earlier— of course, but her face caused memories to flash in her mind. 

_ Knives. Hair. Tangerines.  _

Suddenly, she wanted to break Irina’s heart.

“Mother died shortly after you were born. I wondered about that for a while. They said it was cancer. I think you took  _ everything  _ from her and starved her.”

Her tone was even, calm, as if she was commenting on the weather. Irina’s face was slowly turning red. 

_ Good. _

“They say I’m the natural-born killer, but you were actually born already killing another, so maybe you’re the true natural-born murde—”

_ “Stop.” _

Irina’s face had gone from red to pale. Her hands were shaking. “Stop, Oksana, I know what you’re doing, and it won’t work.”

Her stare wasn’t angry or afraid— it was determined. Oksana’s lips twitched, did she think she could talk to her like that just because she had not been like this to her before? Well, she was about to be—

“You  _ cannot  _ push me away. I’ve  _ seen _ the notes. I’ve  _ heard  _ what they say about you. What they call you. Diagnosed you. Labelled you—  _ psychopath.” _

Oksana flinched. 

“I don’t know. I don’t know— I read these words. These articles. These books— they say psychopaths manipulate those around them, test boundaries, hurt them, and then push them away.  _ Don’t. Oksana, please don’t _ ,” Irina’s voice was thinning, on the verge of becoming hysterical. 

_ “I love you,” _ she vowed. “I don’t care what these words say because _ I love you _ .” 

Irina’s hands grabbed onto the blanket, curling her fingers deep into the soft material. “But don’t test me, please. Because no matter what you do, I will stay. I will do whatever you want me to— need me to do. I will tolerate any word, any action— but I  _ don’t want to have to _ .”

Irina’s eyes started to glisten, her body shaking even harder. Oksana had  _ never  _ seen her like this before. 

“I am sorry I am so selfish,” her younger sister continued, “But I need to ask— beg— because I can’t have you push me, test me— because it will  _ hurt.  _ And I don’t want you to  _ hurt  _ me.” 

Her voice cracked at the end of that sentence and Oksana felt a crack inside of her as well. A fissure. 

She felt something in her fracture wide open. A deep ache in her chest, and she couldn’t help but just hold her breath. What—  _ what is this sensation? _

Oksana felt  _ stunned.  _

She felt absolutely stunned. Her eyes were wide open, her jaw was almost slack. There was a heavy pounding in her chest, and she still hadn’t released her breath. A second, two, three, four— 

And suddenly, it was like a dam had burst.  _ She exhaled.  _ And the tightness she felt loosened just a fraction. Barely noticeable. Her hands trembled now as well… 

Was this what it meant to be  _ afraid _ ? 

Irina’s upper body now curved on top of her, sobbing. Wrecked. So fragile. So breakable. And Oksana wondered if she was afraid.

Afraid that she couldn’t do as Irina  _ begged.  _

—

Now they stood in a warm embrace. Years had passed since that night, and Oksana— Oksana  _ still _ hadn’t completely processed what had happened. Still hadn’t completely processed how she felt about it— because of it. 

One thing was for sure though, she had not directed outwardly malicious or cruel words or actions toward Irina after her wretched pleading. That memory had become her own haunting, warning— flashing in her head whenever the scale in her mind was close to tipping over to her more  _ vicious  _ side. Not that Irina remained unscathed, no.

She just didn’t suffer as much.

Oksana’s acts against her could be seen more in the vein of pranks: multiple packages of varying obscenely decorated mugs from all over the world, her work supplies wrapped in foil, mayonnaise injected donuts (which was just purely evil but entirely excusable, in her opinion), and the likes of such. 

And every single time, Irina would raise an eyebrow at her (when she finally sees her again), prompting Oksana to adopt a look of innocence and say,  _ “oops?” _

And also, every single time, Irina would then say, “I love you.”

And Oksana’s face would get scrunched up, would look like she was being half-strangled, because  _ damn it _ , how is that a logical response to a clever yet inconveniencing and disrupting prank? Especially for someone as anal as her sister. 

And then Irina would laugh. As if on cue. As if this was her own little revenge, to make Oksana display such a look on her face, and finally, Oksana would softly say, “I love you too.” 

And Irina would smile. 

And Oksana then wonders if she does mean what she says— because it’s somehow getting easier each time to say it…

“Be safe tonight, okay?” Irina said as she finally pulled back. 

Oksana nodded and then reached up to messily muss up her perfectly coiffed hair. 

“You too,” she said with a sly smirk. “I will see you tomorrow.” 

Irina looked at her, smiled, and then turned around, “good night  _ dickswab!” _

“Good night—”

_ Mother-killer. _

_ Anal retentive bore. _

_ Poster child for birth control— _

“—  _ dickswab!” _

Oksana watched her enter the lift and then finally closed her front door. What time was it? She looked at her watch:  _ 1845\.  _

She smiled. Just enough time for a short nap— and  _ then,  _ she will get ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, well, well-- more flashes of Villanelle's past and her relationship with her beloved sister. What do you all think of their sibling dynamic now? More understandable? Or more confusing? Relatable? And what do you think of Villanelle's view on death? Of spirits sinking in-- and sinking in? 
> 
> Also, Villanelle and scary doggies that she sees as puppies-- yay or nay? Yay for me, definitely. And also, Doberman is my favorite breed :D 
> 
> Let me know what you think! Thank you so much! I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading this work! Comments and thoughts are greatly appreciated!


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